Beauty & the Beast
by Willow Battlegale
Summary: In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.
1. Chapter 1

**In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.**

**Willow: I don't own Jimmy. He's just one of the voices in my head.**

**Jim: NO ONE OWNS ME!**

**Willow: Weeell, Moffat and Gatiss do.**

**Jim: WHAT? *storms off to find Moftiss***

**Willow: This is set between 02x02 and 02x03. Hence why this creep is still alive.**

**Jim: *whining* I could've survived that.**

**Willow: Keep telling yourself that, dearie. *winks* Here's my story.**

"You picked the wrong house to break into," Someone drawled from the armchair.

For the record, I didn't react. Well, not externally. Internally, I jumped up and down shrieking and ran away. But being raised by a conman has its benefits, and I shrugged. "All part of the job."

"Please, sit."

"Um, no thanks, I'll be going now, sorry to have bothered you."

"_Sit_."

"Well, I suppose I have time for a chat," I hedged, flouncing over to sit across from him. "I'm Diana."

He smirked. "Liar." It wasn't accusation, just an amused observation.

"Minerva."

"Next I presume you'll move to Venus or Juno."

"I was thinking the epithets of Artemis, actually."

"Mycroft Holmes hired you."

"Creepy guy in a suit with the umbrella?"

"I see he didn't introduce himself."

"Yes, well, his PA got the thought of goddesses in my head with Aletheia."

"What did he tell you about me?"

"Nothing much, actually. He told me you would be out of your flat today, and to get your laptop and replace it with this one." She said, pulling one out of her bag.

He leaned forward, out of the shadow of the armchair, and I could see more of his face. His grey eyes glittered as his smirk widened. "You think by telling the truth, you'll buy yourself some time before I kill you and dump you in the Thames."

"I _did_ offer to leave, and I'm being very frank. Don't I get brownie points for that?"

"I'm not going to kill you."

"So what are you going to do?"

"A brilliant young girl from Harvard with a side life of crime, here in London trying to rob a criminal mastermind? I'm inducting you into my household, mostly to annoy Mycroft."

"And I'm not really given the option of refusal, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Have you considered what my roll will be?"

"Yes."

_This ought to be good._ "PA?" I said aloud.

"Dear Lord, no."

"Head thief?" I joked.

"No."

"Consulting Con Artist?"

"Are you going to continue making quips, or shall I tell you?"

"I'm putting it off because I'm not going to like it."

"You see, I play with a lot of high-ranking people. They're so _dull_, and their mental scopes are so _narrow_ that they'll accept me as one of them—which is of course crucial to playing them—only if I fit into their _box_."

"Sounds like high school," I said sardonically.

"I need a wife."

Oh, shiiiiiit.

"This or the Thames?"

"Pretty much."

"I'd almost prefer the Thames." I groaned.

He rolled his eyes. "If I had that option, I'd take it."

"Surely you could get anyone—and I do mean _anyone_—else to play house with you?"

"That's no way for a wife to talk to her husband."

"I'm turning into a feminist just talking to you."

The infuriating man once again smirked. "That wasn't a refusal." He said.

"Screw it. Fine, I'll marry you."

"How romantic. This is the sort of thing we'll tell the grandchildren about some day."

"Oh, no, I may have to live with you and attend social functions and cling to your arm, but there's no way in hell I'm ever…"

"Yes?"

"Well, for starters, can we exchange names?"

"Bond. James Bond."

"Haha. I'm serious."

"I'll continue making up fake names until you tell me your real name."

"I'm Theodora Miller, but I'd much prefer it if you addressed me by the nickname Theo."

"You're telling the truth, I see. I'm James Moriarty. You can and will address me as Jim."

"Alright, James."

"I can also see you're going to be difficult."

"But you loved me enough to marry me," I sang.

He snorted. "I'm still considering the Thames."

Oddly, he was bluffing. I interested him.

Only later did I realise that this interest was far more dangerous for me than if he hated me.

**Jim: Review.**

**Theo: Really, you had to throw my name in there?**

**Willow: Oh, please, no one else would call him James, and in my head that's how it panned out.**

**Theo: I should ship you with Voldemort.**

**Willow: Don't be ridiculous. Voldemort isn't human.**

**Theo: And Moriarty is?**

**Jim: I'm still here, you know.**

**Theo: Don't you have a city block to blow up? A murder to orchestrate? An insane robbery to commit in broad daylight? A case with which to taunt Sherlock? A ridiculous secret code to post on his blog?**

**Jim: I tire of your boring retorts.**

**Theo: Oh, go shoot yourself.**

**Willow: *beaming* See? You're a match made in heaven.**

**Theo: Never mind, shoot **_**her**_**.**

**Jim: Oh, gladly.**

**Willow: *ducks behind pillar* Help!**

**Jim: And don't forget to review. Or else.**


	2. Chapter 2

**In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.**

**Willow: I don't own Jimmy. He's just one of the voices in my head.**

**Theo: What fresh torture have we for me today?**

**Willow: Shopping. *winks***

**Theo: Ugh! Just get it over with.**

"You enjoy shopping more than I do."

"Yes, I do."

"No wonder you don't already have a wife." I muttered.

He glared. "Just try on the next dress."

"Nothing like a gay bestie."

"Next dress." He said with teeth gritted.

A woman with a huge smile approached us. "Can I help you two at all?" She asked, mostly to me.

"My fiancée here needs an entirely new wardrobe," Jim said smoothly with a fake smile, "But I'm afraid she's not one for fashion."

I flashed an equally false grin at the woman—her nametag identified her as Kate—and gestured to the dress I was wearing. "James just vetoed this one. Any suggestions from a fashionable woman like yourself?"

"It's so sweet that you're going shopping together! I'm sure we can find some more flattering pieces. You look like a Winter."

"Come again?" I asked.

"It's how they differentiate what colours look best on people—it's got to do with complexions." Jim offered. As I stared at him, he added, "I go shopping for suits pretty often."

Shit. I was supposed to know that sort of thing. "That's right, you go shopping when I'm at class."

"Class?" Kate asked politely as she took my measurements.

"Oh, I take archery on the weekends." The lie was quick, smooth. My father would've been proud. Jim Moriarty gave me a "wow, that's your cover story?" look.

Kate must've caught it and misinterpreted it, because she smiled. "How long have you two been together?"

"Almost a year. He proposed spur-of-the-moment last night in his flat," I shot a conspiratorial and somewhat accusatory look at James, who shrugged, "It really just _happened_. I was so surprised, and he honestly hadn't known himself he would propose until I walked in. We're going to get rings later."

"That's so romantic!"

She flounced off to find me more dresses and I pretended to gag. "I can't believe she bought that mawkish nonsense." I murmured under the pretence of sitting down beside him on the couch.

"Nonsense indeed. I thought your father was a conman."

"It's not my fault you mentioned your shopping habits like your _fiancée _wouldn't know them. And for that matter, couldn't you have pretended to be my gay bestie?"

"Practice makes perfect… and you certainly need practice."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, partially for the headache and partially so my hands wouldn't clench into fists and punch him of their own accord. "We're not even married yet, and I want a divorce."

"Thames." He reminded me.

"Here we are. I think you'll like this blue one here."

Moriarty settled into the sofa with a smirk as I shot him a look. Today was going to be a very, very long day.

**Willow: I'm showing remarkable restraint in not harping on about the dresses.**

**Opal: She can go on for hours.**

**Willow: Oh, like you're any different!**

**Theo: Ladies? Enough sibling rivalry. We have business to attend to.**

**Jim: I should introduce them to the Holmes brothers.**

**Theo: …No. Just… No. However, feel free to introduce me to them! Oh, and Moftiss.**

**Jim: Do not speak their names!**

**Theo: I didn't, I spoke the cute pet name we fangirls gave the two of them as a whole.**

**Jim: I could have YOU dumped in the Thames. *chases Theo across the room***

**Willow: Hey, now, lovebirds. Thank you for your lovely reviews, folks. Much obliged. Also for the alerts! Will update soon as possible.**


	3. Chapter 3

**In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.**

**Willow: I don't own Jimmy. He's just one of the voices in my head. Nor do I own the other fabulous BBC shows or the song Theo talks about.**

Our shopping was concluded—I was now wearing a horrible engagement ring with a huge diamond in a square setting—and Moriarty had informed me that this was the last night in the flat; we were leaving for some other residence in the morning.

It came as no surprise that I got screaming nightmares. Oddly, they had nothing to do with my current situation; rather I was running down the streets of New York City with the cops chasing me.

I woke up with a pathetic whimper (dammit!) and snuck into the bathroom. After a moment of looking at myself in the mirror—my hair was plastered to my forehead and tangled, my eyes red-rimmed, and my expression haggard—I splashed cold water on my face and buried my face in a fluffy grey towel.

To my knowledge, I'd never even been on the streets on New York City. I'd driven through once or twice, but I hadn't gone sprinting down them, and I'd never been chased by cops—hell, I'd yet to be arrested.

Sleep was no longer an option, now that my mind was whirling with thoughts of what the next day would hold.

The guest room was right next to the main room (which contained a dining room table, a small kitchen, and a sitting area), so I padded quietly out of my room and sat down on the couch.

_Screw Moriarty if he thinks I'll be quiet for his sake_, I thought as I flipped the television on and found—to my delight—a Merlin marathon on the BBCone channel.

One of my favourite episodes was playing, and I settled in with a smirk as I considered that James Moriarty was about to be woken by a bar fight.

The creak of springs and the cushion shifting was the only thing I noticed of Jim coming to join me. I jumped a bit and then glared at him. He gave no sign he'd seen my reaction besides a small smirk.

I sighed and shifted away from him. "Want popcorn?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Great. You can make it."

"Excuse me?"

"You've never been on a date before, clearly. The guy is supposed to get the food."

"This is a date?" He smirked.

"Yup. I'm not marrying a guy without a single date. This isn't Vegas."

"What happened to being afraid of me throwing you in the Thames?"

"It's hard to be afraid of someone in purple silk pyjamas."

"They're wine-coloured."

"Nuance."

"Alright. Popcorn it is. What is this show, anyway?"

I stared at him in mock-horror. "This? This! This is Merlin, you idiot. See—that's Merlin there, and that's Arthur, and that's Gwaine, though he's not a knight yet."

"They're the same age, though."

"Mmhm. It's a retelling, kind of like BBC's Robin Hood. How is it _I_'m telling _you _about British television shows?"

He flopped back down with a box of caramel-covered popcorn as Gwaine took out a guy with a pitcher of mead. "It's full of historical inaccuracies."

"Yes, and you're full of arrogant pomp." I mumbled as I ate a handful.

"Shame. I was just beginning to like you."

"Liar," I chuckled.

"I could still throw you into the Thames."

"Ugh. I was just beginning to forget your little ultimatum. Though how could I… I should write a poem about manacles of silver and diamonds. I'm certainly in the bitter poetry mood.

"Who the hell are you, anyway? How could you possibly be this screwed up one minute but act so freaking normal the next? Are you just a sociopath playing your way up the political ladder, or what?"

My outburst amused him, apparently, because I had to wait a whole minute before he stopped laughing. "You may look a winter, but you're far too fiery for your own good."

"Who. Are. You?"

Jim appraised me with raised eyebrows.

"Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Um, no. He's related to the umbrella guy, though, I presume?"

"His little brother. He's been in the news internationally, particularly here in London."

I nodded slowly. "That's probably why I haven't heard of him. I don't pay attention to the news."

"Well, he interests me, and—"

"Aw, do you have a crush?"

"Don't interrupt me with such nonsense!"

I could tell I crossed a line. "Right. Continue." I said graciously, folding my fingers together.

"Anyway, he's a consulting detective. _I_ am a consulting criminal."

"That's brilliant…" I breathed. "So you tell people how to go about committing crimes, for a price of course."

"Of course."

I bit my lip, nodded, and sat back into the couch.

"Haven't you got a snippy remark for me?"'

"Nope."

"Witty retort?"

"Nada."

"Why are you awake?" He said, changing subject as rapidly as he changes moods.

I folded my arms and glared sidelong at him.

Jim smirked. "Nightmares?"

"Clearly, you are of genius IQ." My voice was dripping with sarcasm, but he laughed. "What about you?"

"What?"

"You're awake."

"I'm a night owl. I've got crime to organise, after all."

"You need a hobby." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I blushed. Shit. I hadn't shown this much emotion for years, and somehow this sociopath had managed to shake my nerves thoroughly.

He sat up straighter, facing me. I studiously ignored him, trying to pay as much attention as possible to Colin Morgan's antics on screen.

"One, that sounded suspiciously like an order. Two, I have a hobby."

I rolled my eyes and turned away from him. "Does that hobby include stalking, crime, death, weaponry, or the Holmes brothers?"

"Um."

"Then it's not a hobby. How about tennis?"

"Boring."

"Horseback riding."

"Boring."

"Fashion designing."

"Boring."

"Rock collecting!"

"BORING."

"You remind me of a P!NK song."

"Bor—what? What song?"

I smirked and hurried off to find my iTouch—my one item of luxury, which may or may not possess the capability to remotely disarm basic security systems—and found the Funhouse album.

His eyebrows rose higher and higher as he listened until, now blushing furiously, I moved to turn it off.

"You listen to _that_?"

"Well, what do you listen to? No, let me guess… 80's and classical."

"Been going through my iPod?"

"Yup," I lied.

"I haven't got an iPod. How did you guess?"

"I dated a guy like you once. He could turn his emotions off like a switch, interestingly enough. He liked that sort of music… Show tunes too. The star of the school, he played guitar and sang, all the girls loved him, but for some reason he chose me. Aaaand, why am I telling you this?"

"I don't know. Keep going."

"Not much else," I said with an uneasy laugh. "He cottoned onto the fact that I like to control everything and left me for his fanclub."

"Like to control, do you?"

"Yep."

"Hmm…" He murmured, and I wondered what nightmare he had in store next.

"So, your turn."

**Theo: Okay, first you drag me into this, now my exes?**

**Willow: *guilty* What on earth are you talking about? Oh, Atticus! He couldn't play guitar. That was just a random character detail.**

**Theo: Review. Maybe she'll hurry up and put me out of my misery.**

**Jim: You? You don't have to put up with this mawkish crap!**

**Theo: Do you think you're the only one who hates sentiment here, buddy?**

**Willow: You ARE dating someone.**

**Theo: I admit that. But **_**I**_** didn't get all choked up and shoot myself when on the verge of success. For God's sake, you were so close and you blundered your words.**

**Jim: You—**

**Theo: Me! What about me, Jimmy dearest?**

**Willow: Please review and distract them. Before I get caught in the crossfire.**


	4. Chapter 4

**In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.**

**Willow: I don't own Jimmy. He's just one of the voices in my head. Nor do I own the other fabulous BBC shows or the song Theo talks about. Also, I've never even left the US, so my London knowledge is entirely based on Google maps.**

I shuffled and peered over Jim's shoulder. "When I said your turn, I meant to tell me more about yourself so I'm not lost in all the sociopath weirdness, and instead you drag me on a killing spree."

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying yourself."

"I'm not doing anything, except shivering on this blasted rooftop while you snipe people when I should be sleeping!"

"Would you like to shoot someone?" He asked courteously, stepping back.

"You really need a hobby," I grumbled, but pull my coat tighter and lean over the gun. "I've never killed a person."

"I'll show you how. Just stand so, and—"

"I know how to shoot, idiot. I caught my fair share of bucks in Western Pennsylvania. I've just never killed another human being."

"Don't call me an idiot."

"Sorry," I conceded.

"It's really quite simple. Nothing different than killing a deer, really."

"Sure there is. With deer, we made venison. Unless you're also a cannibal, there's not a point. And you're a criminal, so I doubt there's a moral reason."

Jim shrugged. I studied him for a moment. Then, as softly as I could manage it, "Why are you killing them, James?" My voice surprised me, even.

"I'm bored and these people have no contribution to society. If there was a reason, I'd send real snipers after them. This is just entertainment."

"How can you tell they're worthless?"

"I observe. I do background checks. Really, are you going to kill them or not?"

I turned my attention back to the rifle, and the turret it was mounted on. Then I smirked at him. "You're wearing gloves, right?"

"Of course."

It seemed my intent was transparent, because his hand shot out to stop me—just a little too late, though I think that was on purpose. The gun fell in almost slow motion, tumbling forward off the building.

"What the hell are you doing?" He snarled.

"You sabotaged my burglary. I'm sabotaging your killing spree."

"It's not like I'm killing your friends."

"You could. What if, on accident, you're out here one night and you kill one of my friends? I had some pretty useless friends, but I wouldn't change a damn thing about them. You understand nothing of friendship, but seriously, everyone you've ever killed is someone's family, someone's friend."

He stared at me, but once you deprived me of sleep, then set me off on some morality hype, I was unstoppable.

"You're a complete sociopath, and so I know you don't give a damn how you're affecting me, but you don't want me as an enemy and I interest you, so that's a no to the Thames. I'm fiery, and emotional, and I'm going to argue with you. But I'm also not afraid of you, so I'm always going to tell you the truth whether you like it or not, and that's a valuable asset. Killing people without reason is a no, James. Please. Get a hobby."

I stopped, breathing heavily. The shouting below us reached my ears and I peered over the edge. "Um, we're about to have cops on our tails."

"Then we should run."

Somehow he'd gone from scowling, to staring, to smirking in less than a minute.

I beat him to the stairwell and we sprinted down them, bursting out onto the street.

"There!" Someone yelled.

We skidded to a halt, and we whirled around and ran down another street, Dover.

I started to turn down Stafford, but one glance down that road and he told me we'd better keep going. "They expect us to go that way, they'll cut us off."

The next branch off was a downhill slope and curvy, and it connected to a street that went two ways. _Perfect_. He grabbed my hand as the crowds swarmed us, and dragged me down Lansdowne Row.

A black car pulled up to us on Fitzmaurice—I saw the phone slip back into Jim's pocket—and we climbed in. "Might as well take us to the manor now. Arrange for our things to be brought down too."

I was still trying to catch my breath, and then a thought occurred to me that made me wheeze with laughter. "Oh—my—God." I gasped.

"What?"

"How is it, when I dream this, it's a nightmare; but when I live it, it's the most fun I've ever had?"

"This was your nightmare? Being chased by NSY?"

"Oh, shut up. Nightmares aren't meant to be rational."

"Seriously, this is the most fun you've ever had?"

"My life has been very boring. Crime was thrilling, but it was just a way to supplement my college fund. I put so much emphasis on getting out of my old life that I never considered a new one. I also minored in English Lit, in case you can't tell by that horribly clichéd statement that I just made."

"And your major?"

"Criminal Psychology. The irony amused me."

"How'd you end up in London?"

"I looked up crime rates and followed them here, but I couldn't catch a break as a writer, a psychologist, or burglar. Why are _you_ here, Irish?"

"Same reason, though for very different intents. Don't call me Irish."

"You spend the entire day telling me not to be such an idiot. I'm not an idiot."

"Could've fooled me."

I looked around the back of the car in frustration.

"What are you looking for?"

"Something to throw at you."

**Theo: LOL. My theme song in this hellhole known as Willow's brain.**

**Willow: This is but a small room of my mind palace.**

**Theo: Pfft. Mind palace. I have a mind HOGWARTS. Hahahahaha.**

**Jim: She is not okay up here. *taps head* Coming from me, she is NOT okay.**

**Theo: Suicidal sociopath telling me I'm insane. Ah, the irony.**

**Jim: It always goes back to suicide with you.**

**Theo: "Your life is not your own" in the words of Sherlock Holmes.**

**Jim: Must you?**

**Theo: Oh, yes, I must.**

**Willow: Review?**

**Theo: Or else.**


	5. Chapter 5

**In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.**

**Willow: I don't own Jimmy. He's just one of the voices in my head. Nor do I own the Harry Potter quote.**

"Two would-be snipers appear to have dropped their gun and then fled the scene last night in Piccadilly Circus, leading the police on a chase across London. There are no leads as to their identity. Luckily, no one was harmed, though police are no closer to discovering the identity of—"

"We made the news." I joked as James clicked off the car television.

"Admit it, you're enjoying this."

"Oh, yes."

James (when had he become James in my mind? Somehow his full name was more intimate than Jim) frowned at me. "Why aren't you afraid of me? Even the great Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes are afraid of me. I will kill you without hesitation if I grow bored, and you know it."

"To the well organised mind, death is but the next great adventure."

"There's nothing after death," He told me.

"You won't know that for sure until you die."

"If there's a wonderful place for the dead to go, why does it bother you that I kill people?"

I turned sideways in the backseat of the car, ignoring the seatbelt's attempt to choke me. "Not everything has to be logical. You need a hobby," I reiterated suddenly.

"Like robbing houses?"

"Ha-ha. I read books, you know. That's a hobby. And I play badminton. That's a sport. Burglary just happens to be my _job_."

"Well, I collect knives. That's a hobby. And I kill people for sport. It just so happens that my job is organising crime."

"You should play badminton with me sometime."

"I do have courts on the estate grounds for such practices, though I can't say I've ever used them."

"Estate?" I managed to splutter.

"There," He said, pointing out the window.

_Manor _and _estate_ were sort of misnomers. I think _castle_ would've fit it better. His smirk told me he'd expected this sort of reaction. I reached over and Gibbs slapped him (I really had to lay off the NCIS… and CSI… and Psych… and Bones… and The Mentalist… and all my other crime shows) with a strangely fond, "Rich bastard."

"There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity."

"I didn't even know there was a line."

"Did you just call yourself brave, or stupid?"

"According to my logic, they're synonymous, and besides, I was replying to a random statement of fact you made without prompting, not commenting on my own actions or words."

"That had to be the most convoluted sentence ever." James smirked.

I punched his shoulder lightly ("Ow…?") and looked out at the looming mansion outside. "Wow." I managed.

Moriarty checked his phone and then glanced up at me. "The door is unlocked, and the staff will provide you with anything you need. Feel free to explore to your banal heart's content."

"What about you?" I asked, surprised.

"I'm needed in China."

"Oh, _of course_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This is so surreal. I'm marrying a stranger who happens to be an international criminal overlord."

"Well, when you put it like that…"

"We should invite Mycroft Holmes to the wedding." I said, before leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek coyly like we were courters in Victorian England. "Thank you for the wonderful time, Mr. Moriarty."

"I'll make a decent criminal out of you yet," He mused.

I recognised that parting jab as the dismissal it was and climbed out. As it drove off, I finally thought of a retort. "And maybe I'll make a decent man out of you."

"Ms. Miller, I'll show you to your room."

"Don't interrupt my dramatic moments." I muttered, but followed the poshly attired butler anyway.

I stopped the minute my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Cherry wood, granite, Persian carpeting, two staircases with a slight curve on either side of the atrium leading to an equally opulent second story; the smell of ginger and leather and wood; soft clinking of plates, the smart click of heels from the help bustling around, floating music—it was sensory overload.

"Come along, Ms. Miller."

"Right," I rubbed my temples as he led me through a complicated system of corridors. "Did Jam—erm, Mr. Moriarty, did he grow up here?"

"No, Ms. Miller." He replied, as if it were obvious. _God, not another know-it-all! _

"Oh, right, he's from Ireland, right?"

"A suburb of Dublin if I'm not mistaken, Ms. Miller."

"Don't call me that; I feel like a school teacher or a spinster when people address me so formally. Theodora would work fine."

"I don't think I can do that, Ms. Miller."

"What would you feel most comfortable with, then?"

"I don't know, Ms. Miller."

I groaned and pulled out my phone, ignoring him.

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Enjoying yourself? –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_I feel like I've stepped into the last century. Why do you insist upon such formalities? –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_I like formal things. Like suits. –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Is it because you grew up in a relatively casual setting and were miserable, and hence prefer this atmosphere to avoid being reminded of your unsatisfactory childhood? –TM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Oh, yeah, the butler talked. I think I irritated him so much that he just explained to make me shut up. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_If I wanted a live-in psychologist, I'd hire one. –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Oh, but I can do all sorts of thing your run of the mill psychologist can't. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_(I'm scoffing, not that you can see me.) Like what, precisely? –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Sing. Tell you where all sorts of antagonists went wrong as criminal overlords. Cook. Argue with you. Run from the cops. Play house. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_I shudder to imagine most of that. –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_*offended* I'm going to storm off and destroy the house now, I think. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Go ahead. Be sure to videotape it. –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_I tried to smash one of the tables in my room through the stained glass window, but it's too pretty. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Haha. –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Very original, James. –TM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Speaking of… "One day we will meet"? *rofl* –TM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_I'm reading Sherlock's blog, obviously. –TM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_SECRET CODES? Really? –TM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_Fine. Be like that. I'm going to explore, and I'm showing remarkable restraint too—I'm leaving my cell phone. I just hope the butler isn't a murderer. If I die, odds are the butler did it. It's always the butler. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Wait, what? What's this about butlers? –JM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Oh, you already left. –JM_

I smirked at the phone and slid it in my pocket, humming "Boring" as I strolled through the hallways. Every floor had a living room and at least two bedrooms, and each one had a flat screen TV.

The money tallied up in my head to millions. I climbed the stairs up to the fifth story and found one huge master bedroom. It was clearly James's room, and I could practically hear my common sense shouting at me to leave, to not snoop under any circumstance. I padded across the room to the closet, grinning as I saw the rows and rows of impeccable suits and the racks of ties.

My phone rang—I almost jumped out of my skin, but fumbled in my pockets for it and found a blocked number calling.

"Theodora speaking."

"Ms. Miller, I trust you are well." Mycroft Holmes's voice drawled.

I decided to employ the innocent bystander trick. "As well as can be expected. Moriarty caught me breaking in, and—"

"And you were running around London with him having the time of your life with him last night. I know."

"I stopped him from shooting people."

"I'm well aware."

"The inflection of your words suggests you rather dislike him, but of course you also fear him." I did my best to sound professional.

"Likewise, I can tell you're growing fond of him. I feel obliged to warn you that Mr. Moriarty has no interest in anyone but Sherlock, and you're simply a means to an end."

"Wow. Hypocrisy suits you! Look, Mycroft, I'm not too pleased with this myself, but I do find myself wondering what you did to him and what hold he has over you."

"He's holding my little brother's safety over my head, Ms. Miller. If you won't listen to logic, at least consider my appeal to you as an older sibling. Don't help him. Tell me where you are, and I can protect you."

"Funny that you're avoiding telling me what you did."

"Interesting that you're so attached to him."

_I'm not attached to him! He's a jerk, and I can't stand him! But I have to choose a side, and I don't like you! You shouldn't sound so calm about someone threatening your own brother. I start shaking when I consider anything happening to Alexander, and you don't even sound mildly _interested_ in Sherlock's fate! But_ that's not what I said, because that was a jumbled, immature mess even in my head.

"Want to know why I'm defending him? He's the sort that no one else will defend. You appeal to me as a big brother? Well, my little brother is the sort that no one will defend. What. Did. You. Do. To. James?"

I heard his sigh and almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "The end justifies the means."

I fiddled with a tie knot, already regretting my outburst. "Any other bits of wisdom to impart?" I asked as I tried to mask my doubts with asperity.

"Yes. Caring is not an advantage, Ms. Miller."

"If you fight ice with ice, Mr. Holmes, you're going to wind up very cold and get nowhere."

"Mixing fire and ice won't get you much further."

"Don't make conclusions before you conduct experiments. You were right about one thing, though. Caring isn't an advantage. But it isn't a disadvantage either."

I won't deny that I got a good deal of pleasure out of hanging up on him. I will deny, however, to the end of time that I sat down on the ground and played Angry Birds to unwind. It's simply not the sort of thing a BAMF thirty-two-year-old thief does.

**Willow: That was a monster of a chapter.**

**Theo: I sounded like an angsty teenager!**

**Jim: Ha-ha. Hormonal, are we?**

**Theo: What's your excuse?**

**Willow: Relax, you two.**

**Theo: AND YOU! Why do some of these conversations look so familiar?**

**Willow: Erm…**

**Theo: DAVIS IS NOT COMPARABLE TO MORIARTY. *much* I am not dating a sociopath.**

**Davis: Wait, why am I here?**

**Willow: Um. Don't read this fanfiction.**

**Theo: She imagined you, and you showed up. Like the Room of Requirement in my mind Hogwarts.**

**Davis: This is serious crap. I wouldn't threaten Theo.**

**Jim: BORING!**

**Davis: You've been threatening Theo. *pulls out knife***

**Theo: Willow, mind imagining me up a bowl of popcorn? Aw, come on, don't split it up! This is the least tedious thing to happen all day.**

**Willow: What about reviews?**

**Theo: Mm, those are nice too. Leave them under that blue hyperlink, right DOWN THERE.**


	6. Chapter 6

Two days of playing badminton with a silent maid, wandering aimlessly, reading, painting landscapes, watching movies and box sets on the huge television in my room, reading up on Sherlock Holmes, even calling my mom in Boston to say hello and ask how my siblings are doing in college.

"Ms. Miller, you have a text message." Francis (the butler) called to me.

I jumped up—nearly spilling the entire bottle of wine—and ran to get the phone. James was due back today, and while I was dreading going back to dealing with the mood swings, I was bored senseless. "It's Theodora," I told Francis ("Yes, Ms. Miller," "Shut up, Frankie.") and opened the text.

**New Text Message From: James Moriarty**

_Do try to avoid emotional displays. I understand you've been quite vocal about your boredom—Francis talks to me as well—but I do not react well to hugs. –JM_

**New Text Message To: James Moriarty**

_Do I seem like the hugging type? –TM_

**New Text Message From: James Moriarty**

_Well, I did bring you a present. –JM_

**New Text Message To: James Moriarty**

_Is it a bomb? –TM_

**New Text Message To: James Moriarty**

_It's a bomb, isn't it? –TM_

**New Text Message From: James Moriarty**

_Why would I BRING you a bomb? –JM_

**New Text Message To: James Moriarty**

_So you could WATCH me blow up, of course. –TM_

**New Text Message From: James Moriarty**

_With so many more fun ways to kill you, I wouldn't resort to bombing. –JM_

**New Text Message To: James Moriarty**

_Haha. *rolls eyes* Tell me, or else I might be surprised enough to hug you! :p –TM_

**New Text Message From: James Moriarty**

_Please restrain yourself. I'll be there in thirty. –JM_

**New Text Message To: James Moriarty**

_Minutes? –TM_

A knock at the door and a text message (_Try seconds. –JM_) told me otherwise, and I beat Francis to the door. "Can't believe I'm saying it, but I missed you. This place is boring. Frankie won't call me Theodora, there's not a single horse on the entire estate, and I haven't stolen anything in a week. I think I'm going through withdrawal."

"Are you always this talkative when left alone?" He asked, sounding irritable as he stepped inside.

"Yup." I replied unapologetically, punching his arm again. "Next time, don't leave me."

"Why do you feel the need to punch me?"

"Because your reaction is far more amusing than the punching bag that's in the gym."

We reached the main sitting room and he took a chair by the fire, where I joined him.

"I'm about to throw your present in the fire; how's that for amusing?"

"All this talk of a present, and I haven't seen any trace."

He presented me with a long, thin box wrapped in red paper. I opened it gingerly, still expecting a bomb. What I saw was, quite honestly, the very last thing I expected.

"A flower."

"It's a chrysanthemum. I stole it, so that should make it all the more interesting."

"Pretty things are prettier when they've been stolen."

"I'd noticed," James replied dryly.

"You brought me a flower."

"Yes, I understand that is a convention among normal people. I did some research after you insisted upon the concept of men providing the food."

"Research—I take it back. You don't need a hobby," I said, shaking my head. "You need a girlfriend, or boyfriend, whatever."

"Based on the web pages I read, adultery is still frowned upon."

"Not in marriages of convenience. You can date whoever you want. Come on, you need a real relationship. Aren't there any criminals you could take to dinner?"

"I've dated before."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Molly Hooper, she—"

"The girl you convinced to introduce you to Sherlock does NOT count. Neither does any other date that was simply a means to an end—that includes one night stands."

"Clearly, you didn't complete your psychology course correctly. Sociopaths don't have real relationships."

"Sociopaths do not bring pawns a flower, unless that pawn doesn't know they're a pawn. I know I'm a pawn therefore a sociopath would not bring me a flower. Thus, by the Law of Syllogism, if you're a sociopath, you wouldn't have brought me this."

"It's a flower; you're reading too much into this."

"You know what I think?"

"Do tell. I find everything you say _fascinating_."

A child couldn't have missed the sarcasm in that. Nevertheless, having heard that sentiment many times over the years, I didn't react. "I think you're lonely."

Jim (back to Jim with him, given the condescension) started laughing, like that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. It probably was.

Then he stood abruptly and walked over to me, taking my hand and scanning my eyes. I looked back at him levelly, noting that his fingers moved to my wrist. It didn't take a genius to figure out he was looking for pupil dilation and a quickened heart rate. He wouldn't find either.

"My interest in your well-being doesn't spring from romantic attraction, _Jim_."

"Then what is it?" Did I detect a note frustration in the silky voice, the sharp grey eyes?

"You're an only child."

"Obviously."

"I'm not."

"Are we going to sit here and state the obvious?"

"After thirty-two years of loving my insufferable siblings, I'm quite capable of finding something to love about everyone."

"Don't hold your breath," He muttered.

"I like sarcasm. I like people who can take care of themselves. I like ingenuity. I like being challenged. I _love_ not being bored. You can't go through life without ever having anyone care about you. I'm your friend, even if you refuse to be mine."

"Let me guess, as long as I give up killing people and—"

"Not at all," I said, snorting. "I'm not giving up what I love, so why should you give up what you love? I'm a burglar, you're a criminal overlord."

"Consulting criminal."

"Criminal overlord sounds so much cooler."

James rolled his eyes and stalked back over to his chair, finally releasing my hand. I stared at it for a moment, considering the hand shaped red marks. "Why haven't you killed me?" I asked in a deceptively calm voice.

"Never know when you'll need a burglar."

"Liar."

"I do need a wife."

"You could pay an actress."

"I needed someone who wouldn't betray me at the first chance. Still do, in fact." James seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "If you betray me, by the way, I'll handle you personally and you'll _wish_ I'd killed you and dumped you in the Thames." He said the last bit in a singsong voice.

"Don't threaten me."

"And why not?" He smirked at me, waiting for something (I wasn't sure what, but I doubted it was what I was about to say) to prove him right.

"Because," I said slowly as I stood up with the flower in my hands, "When I inevitably die without betraying you, I don't want you running about telling yourself I only did it because of threats. Goodnight, James Moriarty."

If I'd surprised him, he hid it well. I expected no less.

"Goodnight, Theodora."

**Davis: …Which concludes Reason #176 I'm nothing like Jim Moriarty.**

**Willow: Theo, shut your boyfriend up.**

**Theo: No, I'm actually enjoying this.**

**Jim: I'll do it!**

**Theo: You seem awfully eager to engage in hand to hand combat with my boyfriend.**

**Jim: What are you implying, exactly?**

**Theo: I'm implying that Sebastian will be very upset with you if you cheat on him anymore. Particularly given the above fic.**

**Willow: Theodora, stop implying that Jim is gay! Davis, just shut up! And Jim, haven't you got ANYTHING better to do?**

**Jim: Pushing you to your temper's limits is actually rather rewarding.**

**Willow: REVIEW, DAMMIT!**


	7. Chapter 7

After the next day was once again whiled away playing badminton, I flopped down to rest and drink alcohol in one of the various sitting rooms.

"Why do you bother?"

I frowned at James over the shot of tequila I'd just downed. "Please stop asking vague questions when I'm under the influence of alcohol, James."

"Why do you bother acting like a stereotypical criminal?"

"Oh, I don't know. Why do _you_ bother?"

"This is not a high school sleepover where we trade secrets. This is where I figure your game out."

"How about we play a drinking game?"

"I like games." He conceded.

"You ask a question, and I'll either drink or answer truthfully. That'll be your turn. Then, for my turn, I do the same for you. Whoever lasts longer without passing out wins, I think. I don't remember how you win, because I blacked out after all of them in college."

"That's pretty vulgar even for mundane minds, isn't it?"

"Sweetie, I grew up in a big city. Vulgar is, like, my second nature."

"You only use terms of endearment while drinking."

"Yeah, buddy." I said cheerfully. "Now, are you game or not?"

"Yes, fine."

I watched as he poured some of the reddish brown liquid into the shot glasses, which bore a crest with a flowery sort of M. "I'll go first." He said, smirking at me.

"Fiiiiine. Shoot."

"Why do you bother acting like a stereotypical criminal?"

I examined a bubble in the liquor and shrugged. "I get bored. I portray book characters and wait for people to notice. When someone does, I change characters. You caught me off guard, and I couldn't think of a character. So I went with a vague archetype."

"Your turn."

"Um… Huh. Let me think, let me think—I've already had a few shots before this, and it's midnight." After what seemed like ages, I finally decided on one. "What's your favourite colour?"

"You're joking." James said.

"Not in the slightest. There is a psychology to favourite colours."

We studied each other, and then he took the shot.

"I'm thinking you're going to learn more, but I'm going to drink a lot less." I said.

"You're learning," Was his answer. "Now, my turn. Did you like the flower?"

I groaned and banged my head against the bar. "Yes. I liked the flower. I've been researching how to preserve it and everything. I'm thinking paraffin wax. It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in, like, a year, and the nicest thing you've _ever_ done for me. It's perhaps the only nice thing you've ever done. Would you like a discourse of my precise thoughts in regards to it, James, or is my answer satisfactory?"

"Close enough. Your turn."

"Why did you get me the flower?"

This time he didn't even hesitate in taking back the tequila.

"Why are you fixated on this flower thing?"

"Is that your turn?"

"Yes."

I smirked and took a shot.

"Are you lonely up here?" I asked, in answer to his expectant nod.

"Lonely," He scoffed. "This liquor is making you inanely banal. You're such a lightweight."

BANG.

Something in that sound awakened instincts. I haven't heard a handgun go off in a while, but when one does my adrenaline starts pumping.

James was lightning fast, striding over to a potted plant and pulling out a gun. He tossed it to me and I caught it clumsily, a bit too surprised by the fact that he had a gun _in a plant_.

I groaned. "You're insane. A plant. A _plant_, James, you're insane."

"You're really just figuring that out now?"

We shared a knoing grin as he got another gun (a hollowed book on a shelf this time) and joined me.

"All of this staff and no security?" I said out of the corner of my mouth.

"Oh, right, and risk fifty people running amok with guns? I think not."

"Where's Moran?"

"Israel," James reminded me. We'd had this conversation, but I forgot. "We've got fifteen seconds. Can you handle shooting someone?"

"Depends. What was that thud a minute ago?"

"I would imagine that was a maid being shot."

"Who is it? Shooting, I mean?"

The door burst open and I wanted to be sick at the realisation of betrayal. Or maybe that was the alcohol without dinner. "Frank—Francis!"

"Put the gun down, Ms. Miller." Francis ordered me, shifting uncomfortably with the gun in his hand slowly going between myself and James.

My hands tightened on the butt of the gun and I flicked off the safety. "The hell I will." I muttered, levelling it at him.

"Theodora, put the gun down. My orders are not to hurt you."

"Mycroft." James said, somewhere between the brooding snarl and the "_oh, how very clever_" smirk.

"If you even consider pointing that gun at James," I said as Francis glanced sideways, gun swinging to face him. "I will shoot you."

Francis's gun didn't move, but James's finger was inching toward the trigger on his. _Hurry up!_ "Everyone in the household knows you stopped him from shooting people. He ranted about it for an hour earlier while you were playing badminton."

"Shouting at no one, were we?" I asked him casually.

"Shut up." James muttered. Then, "Shit. I knew this gun felt light."

_And you call me the lightweight!_

Francis held up a baggie of bullets. I weighed my gun. There were bullets in this one.

"I didn't even know there was another gun," The butler admitted. Then he steeled. "It doesn't matter. You would never shoot. This isn't your fight, Theodora, so—"

_You're predictable. You'll come back to logic, and then regret. Stay out of this; it isn't your fight._

I pulled the trigger.

There wasn't enough time to feel guilty about or take any amount of pleasure in the shock on his face as the bullet crashed through his forehead, into his front lobes. I don't know if he died instantly or if he died from the blood slowly staining the cream carpet.

James smirked. "I faked a call from Mycroft telling him to go ahead and burst in here. You did well."

It was a test, and he knew I'd be furious. Damn it all!

"You do realise I have a gun, right?" I muttered, but threw it aside and stepped forward, grabbing him and pulling him into a kiss. After a moment, I pulled back and examined him carefully. "Didn't expect that reaction, did you?"

"Not from you at any rate. I find a woman with a gun rather attractive."

"You find anyone with a gun rather attractive."

"Mm, true." He murmured, before clearing his throat: "Is this the first person you've ever killed?"

There was no point lying, and given that I was a few tablespoons of tequila past caring, I said, "Yes."

"I remember the first person I ever killed…" He said with a hint of wistful nostalgia.

I listened as he described the kill, and to my surprise (and later, horror) I was not only intrigued, but found his description rather poetic. Poe would've been ashamed of his most gruesome works upon hearing the dreamy account of flowing blood. Certainly I hung on every word like a child at story time.

"And then my first consulting crime was poisoning this swimmer through his shoes, which I admit got Sherlock's attention at the time…"

And back to Sherlock Holmes. "You know, we need a wedding planner." I interrupted.

"Chad gadya, chad gadya."

"Don't gabber at me in Hebrew." I said, and dialled a number.

**Eva: Whoa, what am I—oh, come on, I'm a wedding planner?**

**Opal: More importantly, they're not going to talk about Theo kissing him?**

**Willow: Sh!**

**Theo: No! You are not allowed to use **_**Chad Gadya **_**in this. We've discussed that Davis and Jim are NOT parallels.**

**Willow: It's my story.**

**Eva: Chad Gadya?**

**Davis: It's a Hebrew nursery rhyme.**

**Jim: Why would I know a nursery rhyme?**

**Willow: Because you're a creeper who tells stories to children when you're not killing people.**

**Jim: Ah, that.**

**Eva: Review?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Willow: Finally, I'm getting James where I want him in this chapter. *blinks* I'm calling him James now?**

**Jim: Oh, dear Lord…**

**Willow: Ew.**

**Theo: It's not mutually inclusive that you have a fangirl crush on him and call him James.**

**Willow: *shakes head* Right. Um, story. I don't own Ja—Jim.**

Light filtered in through a window and I blinked awake. James was sitting beside my bed. "Jam-James?"

"Good morning, _darling_." He sneered.

_Clearly, today is a Jim day._ I shook my head and propped myself up on my elbows, thinking about how I differentiated between the James Moriarty I liked—and had kissed last night—and the Jim Moriarty that almost made me run back to Mycroft Holmes and his creepy meetings in dark warehouses.

"I'm not talking to you right now," I told him. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

He scowled at me. "I have a _thousand_ things better to do, and _billions_ of better people to talk to." Something glinted in his hand and I dully recognised it as a knife.

"You— James!"

"Don't scream," Jim said in his singsong voice. "On second thought, please do."

I admit I woke up screaming. It didn't help that the real James—not nightmare Jim—was sitting at my bedside, looking down at me like I was speaking Klingon.

"What?" I asked defensively, sitting up.

"You were mumbling my name and then you started screaming." Realisation dawned and he smirked. "Were you having a nightmare about me?"

I had no intention of telling him that I frequently dreamed about him killing me, so I quipped, "You're certainly the stuff of nightmares."

"You wanted us to visit this wedding planner, Eva Cormac?"

"Yes."

"She's a con artist."

"Yes."

"A friend of yours?"

"Yes. I'm going to go make breakfast. Want anything?"

"Maybe."

I rolled my eyes and got out of bed. It was a bit creepy that he was there, and yet I don't particularly mind since he's not trying to kill me.

"I killed you in your dream." He smirked as he followed me down the stairs and through the hallways.

"I'm about to kill you in real life."

Jim sang, "No, you're not!"

I frowned at him and turned around on the landing. "James, I killed someone for the first time last night. Would you _please_ give me a minute to compose myself this morning before you start making my world spin out of control?" My voice was sharper than intended, and far more bitter.

James took a step towards me, his eyes blazing. I shoved him away, but he caught my wrists and pushed me back, pinning my wrists to the walls above my head. His free hand pressed to the wall over my shoulder and his lips found mine.

Gentle is not a word to describe any feature of James Moriarty. I'm told you're supposed to see fireworks and remember long walks on the beach. I guess it makes perfect sense that when kissing him, I saw semtex and running from cops. And to be honest, I wouldn't change a damn thing.

He seemed way too experienced in this for a sociopath. Ehm, lemme think, strings of relationships with no feeling but a tactical advantage. Maybe that Molly girl from Sherlock's blog. Mm, my thinking skills were completely shot.

As to my own experience, I plead the fifth. Then, considering I was in England, I doubted that would go over very well.

Finally something clicked and I shoved him back, almost knocking him down the steps. "I _will_ kill you," I sang as I skipped down the next flight. "Who the hell is ordinary now?"

To his credit, he wasn't even fazed. He stalked around the house in his usual manner, yelling into his phone over something he and the Colonel disagreed on—"No, I will not! You idiot, who's the boss here? Damn right I am. Oh, enough of the platitudes. Idiot!"

I turned away from the stove relatively successful, holding two plates of bacon, cheesy scrambled eggs with onions and green peppers, and toast.

"That actually doesn't look terrible." James admitted when he hung up.

"Always the tone of surprise," I mumbled as I set the plates down. "James!"

I'd turned to track down the tea—I drank my tea cold and sweet like the good American I was, much to James's horror—in the fridge and found arms slipping around my waist and lips pressing to the back of my neck.

"I'd say sorry, but really I'm not. I find you very attractive when you're threatening to kill me."

"Are you ever sorry?" I sighed.

"Not really, no."

"Not even about kidnapping me?"

He chuckled. "That," He murmured in my ear, "I'm the least sorry about."

I ignored the seductive edge to his voice. "Go eat breakfast."

"Boring."

"Don't make me sing."

"Oh, please, anything else."

I took relief in the silence that followed. Finally, I looked up from the last of my scrambled eggs.

"James… Did you know that you're not supposed to stir omelettes?"

His laughter rang out and I joined in good-humouredly.

**Willow: **_**Finite**_** domestic filler fluff.**

**Theo: *gags***

**Jim: Agreed.**

**Seb: What the—THEODORA MILLER!**

**Theo: Oops.**

**Willow: *hides behind pillar* I don't ship Mormor!**

**Theo: She does, she does, get her!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Willow: Eva cusses. It's partially censored. I don't like the f-word.**

I don't think I've ever enjoyed scaring Eva Cormac more, and that includes the day we spent in Smithfield, Virginia when she ended up screaming about her first tick with all of my brother's friends listening, and getting zombie nightmares at two am and whimpering to me about them.

Eva looked good, still a few inches shorter with her brown hair pulled back into an Oriental sort of bun, a brilliantly tailored suit, and a business like air I hadn't seen since we conned two guys out of six thousand bucks in college.

"You made your appointment under…Mr. Moriarty, is it?" She asked us in a clipped tone as the door shut behind her.

We'd asked her to come up to the house (the venue for both the ceremony and reception) for the consultation, despite how much it annoyed James that I wanted to hire a con artist to take his money.

"That's us," I said in my best Southern accent, earning a strange look from James. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Actually, do I know you from somewhere?"

I stepped away from James and lifted my chin, meeting her eyes. "I should very well hope so, _Cormac_."

"I knew it!" She said. "That horrible accent…"

"I've fooled many a native Georgian, so don't give me that."

"What am I doing here?"

"I have a bone to pick with you, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I've got a bone to pick with you."

We were in each other's faces.

"Three years!" I snapped.

"A f**#%***ing fiancé!" She said at the same time.

"A legitimate business!"

"A FIANCE!"

Then we laughed and hugged, me spinning her around.

"Crazy bitch." She muttered when I sat her down. "Who's the boy toy?"

"I'd tell you, honestly, but I think he might kill you." I said, glancing over at James.

She peered at my expression and then sighed. "You're serious."

"Oh, very much so. James, this is Eva. Eva, meet my favourite sociopath."

James sighed in a rather long-suffering manner. "I have to go. Theodora, be careful what you tell her."

"Fat chance of that," Eva said. "We tell each other everything. Luckily, she has dirt on me that I really don't need being brought to light. You're safe enough, unless of course you hurt her. If you hurt her, I will kill you, probably in some very creative way."

He snorted derisively. "Check the carriage house later." James added, before scooping up his dry cleaning and leaving.

Eva stared at the door for a whole minute after it slammed. Then, "He's adorable."

"He's the most terrifyingly dangerous person you've ever met."

"And he's f#%*ing adorable. He's just got that air of crazy about him. Is he really a sociopath?"

"It's hard to tell."

"How do you even know him? How could you have fallen for that guy?"

"He pretty much kidnapped me and forced me to agree to marry him. And then I accidentally started enjoying myself."

"Start at the beginning." Eva ordered, well aware that I might hedge around for hours.

"'You picked the wrong house to break into,' Someone drawled from the armchair.

"For the record, I didn't react." At her dubious look, I added, "Well, not externally…"

A half hour later I found myself sitting on the stairs, hugging my knees and summarising the omelette fiasco.

"You kissed him after you dreamt he violently murdered you?" Eva asked.

I shrugged. "And then threatened to kill him, yes."

"You've had odd relationships in the past…"

"You were friends with both of them!"

"Yes I was, but you're my best friend and you're very odd."

"Look, he's not as bad as he sounds."

"What's in the carriage house, then, do you reckon?"

"Um…"

"A bomb?" She suggested, only halfway joking.

I frowned in consternation and got up, grabbing a jacket as I went. She followed me curiously.

The carriage house was pretty much the 19th century equivalent of a garage, and had been empty but in pristine condition when I visited on my tour of the grounds a few days earlier. Today, however, it was swarmed by a group of people in the most casual clothes I'd seen since I'd arrived.

One of them, a pretty middle-aged woman with her blonde hair back in a pony-tail, smiled at us. "You must be Ms. Miller. And…?" Her gaze trailed t Eva.

"Eva Cormac," I supplied with a false smile. "Um, James sent me?"

"Yes, he wanted you to see the new stables."

I gaped at her as she gestured to one of her colleagues to lead a beautiful Bay mare out of the carriage-house-turned-stables.

"You told him you like horses…" Eva pointed out.

I nodded, closing my mouth. "…And he got me horses."

"Daaaaamn."

"I'm in over my head."

"What was your first clue?"

**Willow: Mmkay, folks, that's all. Would anyone be interested in a Sherlock/OC fic? (I really don't care if you are, I'm already writing it.)**

**Theo: *perks up* What? Sherlock/OC?**

**Willow: Yes, Theo, you're going to get shipped with Sherlock next.**

**Theo: Ha! Win!**

**Jim: Can I kill her to get to Sherlock?**

**Sherlock: Whaaaaat? I don't even know her!**

**Theo: You will! Mwahahaha. Ooh, Sebby, you're free to date Jim now.**

**Seb: **


	10. Chapter 10

**Willow: In which I explain WHAT ON EARTH THEO IS THINKING, FALLING FOR MORIARTY! And why she's so attached so very quickly.**

"Eva, what do I do?"

She smirked at me. "In regards to what?"

"James."

"Oh, well, that!" Eva joked, like she didn't know exactly who I was going to ask about the minute it occurred to me to ask about him. "It depends. Do you love him?"

"I don't know!" I whined.

"You snogged him."

_That doesn't help! _"People snog people they don't care about a lot."

"Sure, people do. But you don't. You barely ever kissed Atticus, you never kissed Toran, and I know for a fact you never slept with either."

"Eva!"

"What is so different about him? It took you two years to get a move on with Atticus, four with Toran. Not even a week, and you're already all over this guy like he's the last guy on earth, and trust me I wouldn't marry him if he was.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were working for the Holmes guy." She added thoughtfully.

I shuddered. "I'd rather stick with James than hang around Mycroft, trust me."

"What did he do?"

"He threatened the wellbeing of my siblings if I didn't do as he asked. I told James the minute we agreed to this, and my family is now under the protection of assassins. I'm trying not to think about it."

"Aha!" Eva sat up so fast she almost fell off the bed.

I rolled my eyes at her. "What now?"

"You prefer him because he threatened you, not your siblings. It's good business to threaten someone you need something from; it's sadistic to threaten their family. You can outplay him any time because he doesn't understand love, which is the logical appeal I've been looking for. You're always so damned logical, and this defied explanation until you said that."

"Maybe," I said in a harsh, low voice, "Maybe for once in my life, I want to be illogical."

She grinned at me, unafraid of the tone I'd taken on, the one that had sent mafia members running away from the seedier bars I'd hung around when trying to sell some stolen meth one time. "About damn time, girl! I mean, what college kid from a conservative family is so f#&*ing responsible the first year they're away from home? All you did was rob places, pay your tuition, babysit, do your school work, and call your family. I couldn't even get you to drink until you were twenty one!"

"One might argue the little point that _I robbed places_."

"Practically a saint. Look, all I'm saying is that something big changed here. You killed a guy. Actually, why did you kill him? That's not your style."

"Speaking of style…"

"No changing the subject, Theo!"

"You have a job to do. Don't make me call James."

"Theodora Miller, I demand you answer me right now, why did you kill that guy?"

I smiled and dialled James's number. She squeaked and grabbed her purse, fleeing and tossing insults over her shoulder.

"Theodora." James's voice was tired, ragged. "I presume you have a very good reason for calling when I'm in a business meeting."

"Thank you for the horses, James." I told him, before hanging up.

I didn't have to wait long before James's favourite lackey texted me.

**New Message From: Sebastian Moran**

_Do you make a habit of hanging up on dangerous people? –SM_

**New Message To: Sebastian Moran**

_Yep. –TM_

**New Message To: Sebastian Moran**

_Don't worry. I won't hang up on you. –TM_

**New Message From: Sebastian Moran**

_Your friend left? –SM_

**New Message To: Sebastian Moran**

_Yup. I take it yours did too? (James, I mean) –TM_

**New Message From: Sebastian Moran**

_He's been talking to a few Israeli government agencies. You interrupted a meeting. –SM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Most boring meeting ever, actually. –JM_

**New Message To: Sebastian Moran**

_Tell him he's welcome. –TM_

**New Message From: Sebastian Moran**

_Do you understand the gravity of these deals? –SM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_I mean, really, how is it they make murder and mayhem sound so DULL? –JM_

**New Message To: Sebastian Moran**

_If they're so important, why is James texting me? –TM_

**New Message From: Sebastian Moran**

_He's what? –SM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Really, you just had to tell him? –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_At least tell me he made an amusing expression and interrupted your meeting with loud swearing. (That was the goal) –TM_

**New Message From: Eva Cormac**

_WHY DID YOU KILL HIM? -_- *not giving this up*_

**New Message To: Eva Cormac**

_He paraphrased Atticus at me. –TM_

**New Message From: Eva Cormac**

…_Oh.….remind me not to break up with you, kay?_

**New Message From: Eva Cormac**

_Or quote one of your exes._

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Ah, so that's why you killed him!_

**New Message From: Sebastian Moran**

_Why is James sending me to France to kill a psychiatrist? Atticus Walker or some shit like that. –SM_

**New Message To: (3 Recipients)**

_STAY OUT OF MY PERSONAL LIFE! Jim, just…no. Seb, ignore those orders. Eva, you know better. –TM_

**New Message From: James Moriarty**

_Why not? –JM_

**New Message To: James Moriarty**

_It's a waste of resources. I don't trust anyone but Sebastian to bring you home. –TM_

When had this huge, empty house become home? I shook my head and sighed. I was in way too deep, and there was no going back now—but that really didn't bother me, because I felt alive for, well, the first time in my life.


	11. Chapter 11

**Willow: This was supposed to be a ten chapter fic, tops. I hate myself sometimes. Also, fair warning, I have no experience in romantic matters such as these.**

"I got you a horse this time, what more did you want?"

"You to not leave, maybe!"

"I have a job to do, and you've said before that it isn't a problem."

"You don't have _any _way to contact them without travelling to Israel—and nearly getting yourself and Sebastian killed, mind?"

"Oh, please, those customs officials wouldn't have killed us. Sebastian was exaggerating."

"Was not!" Sebastian's faint voice could be heard in the background, then a pause while Jim glared at him.

I sighed and tried not to throttle the phone. "Just… Hurry home, okay? We'll talk when you get here, after I've calmed down."

"You have twenty seconds to calm down." He reported. "You _know_ I always call when I'm right here."

On cue, he and Sebastian came through the door. James was looking somewhat haggard, and Seb downright furious.

I didn't rush to him; instead I stood slowly from my spot on the stairs and crossed over to them, stopping a metre away and scowling. "Moran, you may leave." I ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.

At a nod from James, the ex-colonel left with the suitcases.

I'd had a speech planned about how dangerous it had been for him to risk an actual airport, plus how annoying it would be to have him pick apart the wedding plans Eva and I had drafted in his absence. Instead I closed the space between us and brought our lips crashing together.

_Just an experiment, just a way to screw with Mycroft, just a way to climb the social ladder, just Stockholm Syndrome, not real, not real, not real, but so _damn_ good._

Especially since he reciprocated, arms sliding around me and just resting there instead of pinning me to the wall again. He seemed more curious than passionate, his mouth exploring mine.

_Shit. Shit, I'm in love with James Moriarty._

I was the one who pulled back yet again, and he smirked at me, the expression of triumph once again not meeting his eyes. I reached up and brushed my fingers over his cheek. "I'm glad you're alive, James."

"And they say I'm emotionally unstable."

"I blame your influence. I was a very well balanced person beforehand."

"Theodora," He ran a finger along my jaw and pushed back my hair, "You're insane."

"You're just figuring that out now?" I quoted with a wild half grin.

I took his hand. "SEBASTIAN! I'm taking James on a walk!" I called to the sniper.

"Make sure you clean up after him, and don't let him off his leash." He joked, poking his back in the room long enough to make sure I wasn't killing James or anything.

James, for his part, looked pretty confused. "I'm trying to track your train of thought and it's not working. Clearly it's not logical enough for me."

"Americans are so unpredictable that they're predictable, unless you're trying to track them. Then they're just unpredictable." I said drily. "Now, unless you want your suit ruined, ditch the jacket and that bloody awful skull print tie."

Don't ask when I started picking up Brit slang. Too much Doctor Who.

"You don't like the tie?" He said in mock indignation, carefully taking the jacket off ("Westwood." "I know, James." "Do you know how much—" "I'm well aware, James.") and then loosening the offending necktie.

"And the gun."

He sighed and set the gun down on the side table. I pulled my hair back and smiled at him. "Come on, James. I'm going to show you something."

**X-x-X-x-X-x-X Not From the Reminiscences of Theodora Miller X-x-X-x-X-x-X**

She was impossible, Jim decided. When they met, she was full of flippant remarks. Then she'd suddenly decided she didn't hate him. Then she'd started showing strange affection.

Now, she was leading by the hand through the woods and fields around the manor.

He'd seen her shoot someone for the first time, seen her hold some serious liquor and reveal her university past, seen her bouncing around like a teenager on her first date, seen her react to seeing an old friend, and even seen her work. But this? She was acting like a child out of the city for the first time.

"What are you looking at?" He asked in exasperation when she stopped dead and just beamed up at a tree.

"Look at this birch specimen," She said. "Come here."

Before he could stop her, she yanked him to the ground so he was sitting down with her. She flopped backwards onto the grass and smiled as the canopy cast fluttering shadows over her.

"You're a child."

Theodora looked at him and, like it was the simplest thing in the world, replied, "I'm in love."

"You're absolutely insane."

"I'm in love with the world's only consulting criminal, blah, blah, blah. So what? I'm a professional burglar."

"Do you realise how stupid it is to love a sociopath?"

"Then," She said, pulling Jim to the ground beside her so he had to look up at the sky too, "It's a good thing you're not a sociopath. I'd say you have ADD, ADHD, BPD, and mild schizophrenia."

"Really, all four?"

"Sure. It explains your symptoms, and why you care for me."

He could've denied it, but he couldn't see the point. There wasn't much point. Actually, this whole venture seemed pointless. "What did you want to show me? Besides a tree." Jim spat the last word as if it were the cruellest insult possible and tried to stand up.

A surprisingly strong arm snaked around his waist to pull him back, and she rolled her eyes.

"James… You get so caught up in that brain of yours that you forget to slow down and look around you. Life is just existing to normal people, and to you everything is a game. But you're missing things too, you know, in the fast lane."

"How would you know?"

"Strings of one night stands, drowning myself in work, isolated from old friends, threatening anyone who dared get in my way… For the past three years, I've been a mess. Since I got here, I've been doing a lot of just wandering around and trying to figure out what the hell I'm even thinking, loving you."

He glanced down at her. She was lost in thought again, her eyes tracing patterns in the sky as if fairies only she could see were flitting around. Theo almost seemed to be wistful.

"You think I'm going to kill you soon."

"Not quite…" She said, biting her lip. "I just feel like it'll be coming to a head soon, and I'm pretty sure when it does, I won't make it—one way or another."

Jim took _one way or another_ to mean _whether you kill me or one of the Holmes brothers do_.

"And I can't help feeling like thus far, my life has been empty. It's almost as if the world finally noticed my clock is ticking down, and decided to cram as much life into the last weeks of my time as possible."

"What do you want from me?"

"Honestly, James? Nothing. You're the reason I've gotten anything out of this _dull _life."

He felt the arm tighten around him, and then she sighed. "I'm angst ridden tonight, aren't I? I was trying to cheer you up, you know. You looked so tired when you arrived."

"Maybe I'm in a depressive state." He said, with a hint of a smirk.

Theo laughed, rolling towards him, and then stopped suddenly. Her expression became rather drawn. "James... Why are you going through with this wedding if you plan to end the game soon?"

**Willow: Sorry, the random insert of Jim's thoughts was pure Christie style; Hastings reminiscences are always interrupted by flashbacks and "meanwhile…" Just trying out a new writing style, and I was wondering how Jim saw all this.**

**Theo: Nice diagnoses… Gag-worthy fluff. Finally I catch on, though.**

**Jim: I was wondering when you'd figure it out.**

**Willow: Shhh, no spoilers.**


End file.
